Alarm Clock
by scorpiris
Summary: The thing that wakes you up in the morning and lulls you to sleep at night.
1. Chapter 1

Many many years ago, Clark received an alarm clock for his birthday. Round face, two slim hands for hour and minute, and a stout short one with a hollow circle like a pod at its point chasing the seconds. It had a nice, though rather grating, ring that could wake up the dead, which was useful because Clark often slept like the dead. He read the card and hugged his parents and let them watch him place it next to the eyesore of a lava lamp that Pete, Lana, and Chloe pooled to get him last Christmas. It was a hardy little alarm, somehow impervious to his aggressive morning behavior. It stood next to him like a silent sentry, guarding him through teenage angst, alien heartbreak and everything in between.

It followed him out of the farmhouse and into his accommodations on University Row where it survived freshman orientation, a torrid change of sexual orientation, and bottomless frustration. Somewhere along the line, someone managed to jury-rig the alarm to make it go moo one morning and cluck the next. Along the way he counted seven different farmyard animal noises that alternated without any conceivable pattern, thanks to a small out-of-place device embedded under the original ringer in the clock's dented butt.

When a fire broke out in the Seniors block one Saturday dawn, Clark managed to save seven friends, three pets living illegally, and two of his classroom rivals. By brunch, it was declared safe for them to go back inside and collect their belongings. Clark's side of the building was relatively okay, but water had gone into everything. Even his alarm clock that looked very wet, utterly sad and maybe on its way to dead. By lunchtime, the gym was full refugees, where corners and quiet spots became battlegrounds. By the time Arthur the exchange student from England crouched in his hard won corner for a spot of tea and scones, Clark had helped beleaguered RAs break up low level fights, soothe a few anxiety attacks, track down several misplaced items and people.

At eight PM, Clark had to double check with a Hello Kitty calendar hanging on the bulletin board to remind itself that, yes, it was still the same day. Just a very long day on top of a very long week. He hadn't even found a spot to sleep yet, his worldly possessions reduced to a plastic box and one hiking backpack.

But several minutes before midnight, for some odd reason, Clark had a mattress under him, a goose-down cover over him, the hum of well-maintained A/C around him, and his faithful alarm ticking defiantly and haughtily on the high-polish mahogany table next to his head. Beyond the understated oak door with sleek chrome handle, someone was driving a hard bargain in Japanese. Someone Clark happened to know very well.

He woke up to somebody screaming for help into his ears. Shrill and urgent in a voice Clark happened to know very well. He all but jumped up, sleep sliding off him like it was some odd dream. He looked around wildly and the screaming didn't stop. There was a weight around his lower waist, and he saw an arm, attached to a sleeping person he also happened to know very well, whose voice was yelling like Armageddon had arrived, from the other side of him.

Out of his alarm clock.

Which he promptly smacked. It went away skittering, leaving a small scar on the table, plopping with one last half-yell onto the thick carpet below, ending with something like a long-suffering sigh.

And there was a chuckle, heavy with sleep, and not coming from any household appliance.

The one that greeted him good morning, the one that asked him about his sleep, and whether he liked the new wake up call. The one that would wake him up with a different message every day, magically programmed into the small wireless gadget clinging like a spider under the original ringer in the butt of his slightly rusty alarm. The one that would later, many many years later, neither confirmed nor denied being the cause of the dorm fire in Clark's Senior year. Because, really, who would be insane enough to burn a building down just to get a boy into his bed?


	2. Chapter 2

_Separation sucks_, Clark thought morosely. Especially separations that came so soon after the one before. Shouldn't there be a good healthy gap between separations, evenly spaced out? A nice periodical schedule allowing for all the missed stolen lunches and TV dinners and... he's not even thinking about the rough and tumble. For other people, maybe. In other dimensions and other worlds, probably. Unfortunately not happening anytime soon in the World of Clark. Because after a three-week European trip, Lex only stayed for two days before haring off to beat Northern Australia into submission with his 88-digit scientific calculator.

Their place was just not the same with just one person in it. The kitchen too empty, couch too wide, the table too long, the bathroom too cold, the bed too big. The view outside of the huge windows too dark, too washed out.

Clark wished he could just go out and do something, but he's just too full of nervous energy, too frustrated, that he might do something rash. _Never go out with anything less than a clear head_. He'd lost count how many times he'd been reminded of it.

So instead he flip-flop-flumped onto the bed-too big, too cold, too bad, so sad. Diagonally with his head where Lex's head would usually be, and his foot in a familiar dent on his side of the bed. He turned his head this way and that, noticing things on the walls, ceilings, and windows he never noticed before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his alarm clock did a little shudder-just like it would do a split second before making a noise. Usually to wake him up, like this morning.

But he didn't remember ever setting it to make a noise at... fifteen-to in the middle of a dead moon night.

Clark, the alarm clock said after a brief wiggle. _So sorry to have to run out of town. But you know that already. I hope you're home. By now, I should still be in the air somewhere, but hopefully not far from Sydney. I hope you're getting ready to sleep, because god knows I can't. Sleep, I mean. So please go to sleep and let me sleep vicariously through you. Don't forget to reset the alarm so I can wake you up tomorrow. Charge your phone. I will call you in the morning. Goodnight._

Then there's silence. Too silent that his blood begin to make noises in his ear. He scrambled up and dragged half a comforter with him across the bed. Grabbed his alarm clock and stared at it like he'd never seen it before. Even though he knew.

He found the reset screw and turned it to the next five minutes and counted down the seconds until there's a telltale click and a small little jump in his hand.

Clark, the alarm clock said after one last wiggle. _I hope it's morning where you are. If so... Good morning. How are you? Do you miss me? I miss you. Text me. Talk to you soon. Have a good day today. If not, go to sleep._

He wound the clock again. Waited and wondered how many messages Lex had stored in his alarm clock. He vaguely remembered that it could store seven animal sounds back when he was in college. But he also knew that Lex had done something to it later on. Although Lex never actually admitted to any tampering of any sort. Ever. Because tampering with alarm clocks were beneath him. Maybe magic. Maybe some otherworldly force, or a little time/space pocket, or a mutant clock that could pick up Lex's brainwave.

Clark, the alarm clock said again after half a lifetime. _Don't you have to wake up early tomorrow?_ A long pause and Clark was already about to wind it up again when it said again, _Did you know that over-the-counter sleeping pills don't work on me anymore? By now, I would be a wreck because I can't sleep and I promised you not to get wasted on the flight. Also, Don't think I don't know that you've managed to get Silvia to hide all the booze. Ever since Europe, there's nothing but water and ginger ale in my cooler. Why is that, Clark? But I also can't afford to have my nerves frayed over my jetlag because Robertson will notice and make me stay in Darwin past schedule. So, for the sake of the both of us. Go. To. Sleep. _

He stared at the clock's round face, the hands ticking idly by and yet looking very bossy as if Lex had turned into a clock like the one in Beauty and the Beast.

He didn't need a lot of sleep, not really. He once found out that he could just sleep one night out of seven without any visible physical problems.

_Sleep is important, Clark. No matter what you are, you need it to give your brain a rest._ The voice on his lap droned on about the importance of sleep. Big scientific words and stretched out histories around sleep and sleeping disorders. About that one old man in Vietnam who hasn't slept for thirty years, about dreams and neural networks, about metabolisms and sensory overload.

Clark promised himself that he would wind the clock just once last time. Because the last two days were not enough time to get over missing Lex.

The flight would go over the Pacific, the alarm told him, Lex tracing his flight path sounding as though he was trying to reassure himself about the miles and miles of open water and almost nothing else. _Do you know that maps lie? Some of the islands drawn on them don't even exist. Or they did before but has gone away and nobody bothered to update the maps._ Lex recited the names of islands that still existed in his low, soothing voice. Making non-sequiturs of stocking them with first aid kits, burying small biplanes under sand just in case, buying this island or that island. Make new islands just because he could. Would Clark like one named after him?

Clark slept somewhere near an atoll somewhere, shaped like a doughnut floating next to a half-eaten beignet.


	3. Chapter 3

Most mornings, Clark's alarm clock wakes him up with a recitation of Lex's daily schedule in Lex's voice. Not all of the items because Lex's schedule is tightly managed down to the seconds—from five-minute face times to the few thousand seconds of a helicopter ride needed for a plant visit, or the two-minutes walk for a one-hour lunch with Clark. So many little things that Clark's mind boggles just by looking at the Lex's iCal mysteriously synced onto Clark's other phone.

So, every morning, alarm-Lex takes pity on his limited alien brain powers and recites the six most important according to Lex. Clark is welcome to choose one of the six to thwart, help, or even use for his journalism assignment. Just one. One or none. Lex thinks it's a good way to teach Clark about prioritizing.

A list of six not-so-impossible things before breakfast, the alarm clock reminds him every day.

Today, a 9 AM sit-in to monitor his new VP's negotiations, a 1 PM fifteen-minute meeting with the organizers of the forthcoming company gala, a 1.30 PM meeting with Bruce, a 5 PM tour of the Smallville plant, fencing at 9 PM followed by a 11 PM call to Bucharest.

Clark stares at the strip of sunlight on the ceiling, his brain slowly waking as he futilely tries to sift through Lex's day.

Late night fencing means that Bucharest is probably important. Evidently important enough that Lex is ready to risk getting another sprained ankle just to channel his nervous energy before the big call.

The Smallville plant tour means that Lex will be staying overnight at the mansion, which only confirms Bucharest's importance. Because even though Lex hated the mansion when he first arrived, it has become like a refuge for Lex these past few years. Clark is also willing to bet that mom's apple pie will be waiting for them.

The one-thirty with Bruce, Clark knows nothing about. But Bruce is a big boy so Clark shouldn't worry too much, really.

The gala is a charity one for refugees. It's one of the many that Lex chose not for image alone, but because he's sharing his life with a refugee, whose home planet was literally torn apart by war and discord. Clark's part in all of this is limited to showing up, looking nice, smiling, and be moral support. He doesn't even need to write up because Lois usually will.

That leaves him with the 9 AM sit-in which sounds innocent enough. He's met the new VP: a bright young woman who was raised in a town much like Clark's and graduated from Lex's alma mater. Best of both worlds, diamond in the rough, gets the job done, nothing to worry about. Gives Lex excuse to doodle.

Only Lex doesn't doodle when he's bored. Oh no. _Good morning, Clark._

***

Lex has always liked his new VP. He imagines she's what a theoretical lovechild between him and Clark would look like. Raised on apple pies and baked beans, educated under weighty stares and vaulted ceilings, forged in cold spreadsheets and heated boardrooms.

This is a low-level negotiation for a semi-important contract. No biggie, but he likes to shake things up a bit. There was a spark of nervous energy from the other five people in the room when they started-Just the VP from his side and four from the other side. But things has calmed down a bit after he assured them he's just watching and won't be interfering. In fact, he's just sitting here in the corner, doing his paperwork and escaping his PA.

The first five minutes convinced Lex that he's made the right choice of person. So that leaves him another forty minutes to waste time. Preschoolers act up or fall asleep when bored, high school kids doodle hearts around the margins, college sweethearts practice signing their society surnames on pieces of paper, executives color in-between loose leaf lines. Lex tests Watchtower security.

In his not so humble opinion, Watchtower security networks should've been better. After all they have several advanced lifeforms running around in interstellar polymer condoms, and at least one is in possession of a powerful spacefaring supercomputer. When the League first started, it took Lex forty five minutes to bypass security and stream retro episodes of 'Pinky and Brain' onto all the screens and comms. The next round of upgrades put up an additional seven minutes worth of resistance. The third time set his lunch back by fourteen minutes. But after a dozen or so attempts, Supe's AI finally threw a tantrum because it is programmed never to retaliate against Kal-el's own, and the others have gotten complacent and unimaginative much like the law of diminishing intelligence.

***

_Time's up, Lex_. His calendar reminder speaks in Clark's voice, filtering through Lex's laptop speakers, marking the end of his allotted sit-in time. He sighs happily. Clark once lamented that he could no longer stay long enough to enjoy South Park reruns, specials, and omnibuses. But now Clark can watch Kenny get killed all day on any of the League's screens or visual comms.

His VP has done a good job too, Lex notes, finishing negotiations within the allotted time frame. It isn't perfect, but she's definitely a learning. Lex makes a mental note to talk to Clark about giving her a code name.

The next few hours is dedicated to his tax department, which deflates his mood a bit as he learned that the US government is really hell-bent on bleeding him dry.

He vents his frustration by declaring the gala a white tie event and making his planner book Clark to an hour-long session with their tailors. Because Clark needs more than the seven tuxes he already has. He wonders if he can add an extra half-hour so Clark can be measured for several morning coats.

Bruce barges through his office exactly at half past one. Lex thinks it as his personal triumph that he can still read the flying rodent like an open book. Yes, Kenny is still being killed every half hour or so. No, not a crippling problem because the emergency channels are still operational. Yes, thank you Lex for sparing us that. Yes, I think he is still moping. No, I am not your messenger boy. Fine, I'll let him know. Fine, we'll see each other in Gotham for that other business. Whatever, Lex.

The empty quarter-hour slot after "Bruce" is for Clark-related things. He updates Clark's alarm clock and then checks his messages. The earliest is from this morning with a "Lex, please don't mess with the Tower. We've only just put it back together again". It marks a respectable deluge of texts and voicemails and vidmails, and emails, and embedded gifs ranging from the pleading, to the threatening, to the distracting. Lex likes the one with Kent flannel and Superman voice being all authoritative farmboy. He saves that for a rainy day and begins to purge the others.

There's a time in the past where he would've hoarded every last piece of those. He likes to think that he's now more mature and more in control of his impulses and libido. Nevertheless, he saves two more, just in time for Alarm Clark to time him out.

Feeling very pleased with his extraordinary restraint, he turns back to his work, the several contracts he need to review and orders to leave before finally...

_Your helicopter is here, Lex._

Lex sighs, thinking that this is as close as Clark talking to him today. Whereas Clark Kent of Smallville can't usually keep a grudge, Kal-el of Krypton and lately Sir Superman of Metropolis has super-sulk to go with his super-ego in his repertoire of super-righteous superhuman ability.

***

A few years ago, Clark made an offhand remark that Smallville Plant is like Annie the Orphan. No brownie points as to what Lex is supposed to be.

As Lex goes through the books with Gabe's protege and walks the floors with a new line manager, he must admit that the awkward orphaned plant has grown into one capable enterprise. He refuses to call it Annie, although Clark has managed to reprogram his iCal to say "Visit Annie".

A quick peek on his handheld shows that South Park is finally off the airwaves, the timestamp says that it's been a while. No message from Clark but one from Martha & Jonathan Kent.

Dinner and a chance to vent.

Martha pumps him for information about Clark and Jonathan runs harvest plans by him. It's still a miracle, Lex thinks idly chewing on a piece of pie. There are times when he worries about the reality of it all. Fears that he will end up waking by the side of a ditch, left for dead.

The elder Kents offer up Clark's old room for the night as a peace offering. Because Lex shouldn't stay in a big cold mansion alone. He's sorely tempted, but he only has fifteen minutes before Heike chops his head off for making her come all the way to Smallville only to be stood up.

Half an hour past nine, Heike goes for the kill but spares his head. Lex is thankful enough that he sends her away with a Tupperware of Martha's peach cobbler, her guilty pleasure. The whole pie and not just two generous slices he had planned on giving her.

***

_Time's up, Lex_. The timer above his bath wakes him up from a dreamless nap. He catches his reflection on the bathroom mirror, and the lighting makes him look like a dried apricot floating in watered down buttermilk.

Bucharest is the last thing on his schedule today and he dresses like he has to go into a board meeting. He thinks it's only courteous, despite it being a voice-only call. Thirty minutes to read through his files. One and a half hour before midnight, and still no Clark. There must be a hundred clocks in this mansion, Lex thinks, their echoes a little suffocating. Lex jots a note for silent clocks.

He spots a throwaway line on his report and bitterly notes that he has hours available for verbal sparring. He draws an oblate spheroid around the paragraph, but restraints himself from coloring-in gradations with his highlighter. There's a good chance he'll have a new company by the time Rocco the Kent Family Rooster wakes up in a few hours' time.

***

Clark Kent, rosy-cheeked in his farmboy chic strolls into his office, one hour in. Throws himself onto the couch and makes Lex wince at the resulting creak. It holds.

All of a sudden, there's no time left on his schedule. He spends the five minutes he doesn't have to arrange a meeting in person; feels happier than he has since maybe twelve this afternoon.

"How do you like a Romanian weekend, Clark?"

"I'll have the AI clear my schedule." Clark says, a playful smile that telegraphs the world.


End file.
